My Dear Family

Summer in Combermere

     by Catherine Doherty

    Catherine wrote this article in the ’60s. Some details have changed, but the essence remains the same.

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    Madonna House is truly a strange place to which, in a sense, the world comes. The main house has five doors, and from hour to hour we never know who will enter through any one of them into our hearts. An avalanche, a beautiful avalanche of youth has been coming this summer to MH.

    They work at our farm and at our main training center, sharing our life of work and prayer. They enliven our discussions, dialogues and seminars. They give as well as receive from us. They may be the new breed upon whom so many adults look slightly askance, but to us they are the hope of the future—and the joy of today.

    People marvel that we bake a hundred loaves of bread a day. These disappear as fast as we make them. It is good homemade bread. We also make our own butter and cheese, and of course we have our own milk and cream.

    There are also several acres of truck gardening. The farm enables us to open our doors wide to all who come to us. Without it, we couldn’t feed the hundreds who pass through our doors each year.

    Each year we consume about six tons of potatoes, a ton of carrots, a ton of turnips, and a half ton of beets, not to mention hundreds of heads of cabbage which end up as sauerkraut in the fall. All these are grown on the farm.

    We also make our own apple juice with apples from our own orchards and from the surrounding countryside. One year we made 600 gallons. And then, of course, there is always the hay for the cows.

    It is wonderful to see the joy and eagerness of our young guests as they enter into this manual labor. They realize that the food they are now eating came from the labor of people the summer before, and that their present labor will provide food for those coming next year.

    But the real fruit of our days cannot be measured, weighed or counted in terms of quantity. For we really have only one goal, one thirst, one desire: to be a community of love.

    A community of love must be open to all who knock at its doors. It must be a community aware of the fact that charity, hospitality and availability are the visible signs of its own internal life—signs of its thirst, its hunger for God and its love for one another.

    We believe in sharing with others what the Lord has done for us, which is the purpose of the books that have come from MH.

    Sometimes, as God’s instrument in founding this apostolate, I wonder why all these people come to the backwoods of Canada. But I have never quite understood. True, we have seminars and discussions about the things of God. But it seems that our guests find something more than words here, something impossible to put into words.

    They are nourished by just living in MH and being part of our family, our community of love. Though none of us can really explain that, we thank God for it and for being able to share it with others.

    As I sit on my island during my few free hours, I thank God again and again for bringing so many people to us. It gets hectic sometimes, and we are tempted to wish the numbers would decrease, but the stranger of a moment ago becomes, in a matter of hours, a deeply beloved friend. No price is too high to pay for that. I am deeply cognizant also that in each person, Christ himself comes to meet us.

    My bridge joins me with all the youth of the world, but also with the others who came to MH this summer. It joins me to the hundreds of priests who came in a steady stream. Our priests’ guest house has been in constant use.

    Priests come to learn about our apostolate. They come to rest a while in the gentle hills and quiet countryside that surround us. They come for retreats, to share their troubles with us, their joys and their pains. Through these priests who have come as pilgrims, I am joined in a special way with all the priests of the world.

    Nuns also come from various religious orders to find answers and also to share the answers they have already found. They come to rest and be refreshed. Through them I am also joined to all the nuns of the world that I love so much.

    Yes, all these people come to Madonna House, and my bridge of love leads me to them and to the Lord.

    God, in his infinite mercy, enlarges our hearts in Madonna House and fulfills our burning desire to be nothing more—but nothing less—than a community of love to which all people can come to experience God. That is all we, in our poverty, can give or be.

 Adapted from Welcome, Pilgrim, pp. 62-65, available from MH Publications.

 

Word Made Flesh

Jesus Carries My Pain

       by Fr. Pat McNulty

    The following is a reflection on three consecutive Sunday Gospels—those of August 13th, 20th, and 27th—which are from the `Bread of Life’ discourse (John 6:41-69).

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    If my calculations are correct and if I have gone to Mass every day since I first took Communion at age six, then I have been nourished on the `flesh’ of Jesus Christ over 22,000 times. (I’ll leave it to you to figure out how old that makes me!)

    I always believed that something happened to my faith through receiving the flesh of the Son of God, but it was a long time before I understood that something also happened to my life.

    I used to be one of those North American Christians for whom faith was often a kind of management tool for life. When life wasn’t going exactly as I had planned, then I would use my faith to change it.

    When I was a child and we couldn’t afford the electric train I wanted for Christmas, I prayed and prayed and prayed for one. And I finally got it. I prayed I would get Sister Good-agunda for 7th grade and not Sister Bad-agunda. And I did.

    I prayed that my brothers would not get killed in World War II, and they didn’t. I prayed for a scholarship to university and for jobs in the summer, and I got them.

    That’s partly what I mean when I say that faith seemed to `do something’ for my life.

    And for almost 40 years it worked. (Not really. I just thought it did.) And then one day, it didn’t. And didn’t. And didn’t.

    That day I lost all my security and control. And it was a great shock for me to realize that the primary focus of my life of faith was an attempt to make life turn out the way I thought it should.

    I was left with a faith on the one hand, and a life on the other. But they were no longer together, no longer one in me.

    And now that they were two separate entities, or seemed to be, I didn’t know how to live either of them. Gradually I not only lost faith in faith, but I also began to lose faith in life. It got so bad I wasn’t sure I wanted to live either of them anymore.

    And yet, because of my deep experiences of Eucharist and the sacramental presence of Christ, the words of St. Peter to the Lord were always there, deep in my heart somewhere—Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life (John 6:68).

    I am not quite certain how the healing happened, how life and faith came back together for me (except by grace), but I know it began with long hours of being alone in solitude or in a crowd, and hours of joy and hours of terror.

    And even though in those hours I was often comforted by the eucharistic presence of the Lord, it was not his presence as such which healed my heart, but the deeper implications of his eucharistic revelation, …the bread I shall give is my flesh for the life of the world (John 6:51)

    Many of us have an unexpressed assumption—a feeling—that even though Christ lived a difficult life and died a horrible death for us, he didn’t really live the way I have had to live: He was never abused. His family was not dysfunctional. His parents were not divorced. He was not the child of an alcoholic family.

    Neither of his parents ever committed suicide. None of his siblings (he had none) broke his heart, etc, etc, etc. Therefore he doesn’t really understand me.

    I used to think and feel like that. But the day my life no longer made sense, even in the light of faith, was the day the Lord began to show me how wrong I was.

    Gradually I began to realize that God, in his human nature, in his flesh, embraced every facet of our human life and history.

    God felt it, God knew it, and God lived it. Fully. Completely.

    What we do not realize is that we human beings have a limited way of experiencing all things human, such as abandonment, abuse, and social and economic deprivation.

    We experience abandonment, for example, in a specific situation. It is real. And it is painful. But it is limited.

    God in his human nature, in the flesh, however, experienced all abandonment. Because Christ was God, everything he experienced in his human nature was total, all inclusive.

    We will never be able to comprehend that unlimited capacity for human experience. But we do need to know that it is true, or we will never feel that Christ understands what we are going through.

    It was this awareness that Christ has experienced everything that I have experienced, that began to bring life and faith back together in me.

    This giving his flesh for the life of the world is what gives ultimate meaning to our human existence. In his life in the flesh, he embraced everything human, and thus made it a `new creation’.

    If I come to this mystery with the eyes of faith, then I see that my life becomes one with his. How? He unites my flesh, my life, with all its puzzle and pain, to his, when he gives me his flesh to eat and his blood to drink. And then my flesh, my life united with his, becomes life for the world.

    Whether I live or die. Whether I have everything or nothing. Whether my life is a mess or a marvel. In him life and faith become one again because, in him, they are Eucharist.

    I suspect one of the reasons I could not see that before was because I was in control.

    But when I had no place else to go, nothing else to say except those words of St. Peter, Christ was able to convince me that he does indeed have the words of eternal life.

    Once I was made aware of this eucharistic mystery as the rock of faith, this section from John’s Gospel stirred up a strange inner peace and new hope in me.

    But I’m sure that, though I did not understand the words with my mind before that, as I heard them year after year with the ears of faith, my heart understood them. And it is through our hearts that life and faith come together for us.

    Listen carefully these three Sundays as you hear once more all about this eucharistic mystery.  The Holy Spirit may be trying to tell you something.

 

Love One Another

Your Love Affair With God

  by Fr. Emile Brière

    God calls you to become a saint. From all eternity he had a plan for you. Being himself infinite love, he created you in order to shower his love upon you, and he loves you infinitely. He thirsts for your love in return and for a personal and unique love affair with you.

    In baptism you were possessed by God from head to foot and became beautiful, glorious, and holy, and the Trinity came to dwell in you.

    But, because of the sin of Adam and Eve, you also have original sin and were born to parents and into a world marred by original sin. So the spiritual life is characterized by struggle and by periods of light and darkness.

    Your conscious relationship with God may have developed slowly, growing gradually over many years.

    Or it might have begun with a conversion of heart and of mind—the result of a grace that touched you deeply.

    The grace may have been an experience of the healing of guilt or shame by his total forgiveness. Or maybe you were saved from something you feared. Or maybe you had an experience of his presence and his love.

    If your conscious spiritual life began with a dramatic grace, it was probably accompanied by consolations and clarity of vision and purpose.

    But usually, after a time, the consolations diminish and sometimes vanish altogether. You enter into a certain darkness.

    Why does God allow this? So that you will really grow in faith and trust in him and in his love.

    A time of darkness is a time to pray for faith and more faith, a time to trust in God no matter how you feel and no matter what happens to you.

    It is a time to love God with your whole heart, mind and strength, and your neighbor as yourself in the darkness of faith. It is time to praise God and serve your neighbor.

    At such a time, you will experience loneliness. Do not seek to fill that loneliness with any creature, but instead go straight to God and straight to Our Lady of Combermere. No one really finds God who seeks total satisfaction in his creatures.

    In her last years, when she was only 23 or 24, St. Therese of the Child Jesus and the Holy Face, gave us an extraordinary example of trust in God in the middle of extreme darkness of spirit. Heroically she said, “My consolation is that I don’t have any.”

    Though it certainly doesn’t seem that way in a time of darkness, remember that you are made for a great love affair with God. But darkness comes before the light. Good Friday comes before Easter.

    If, in times of darkness, you continue to try to love God with your whole heart and to love and serve your neighbour, you will reach a new level in your relationship with God. The time will come when you will discover that you have indeed entered more deeply into that great love affair with God.

 

Russia

 Signs of Spring?

          by Fr. Bob Wild

    As I begin to write these reflections about my recent trip to Magadan in Russia, music composed by Volodya (a Russian friend) is playing in the background. He wrote it to accompany one of his wife’s religious oratorios.

    When I first listened to it upon returning, I expected it to be heavy, but it is very light and bouncy, springtime-ish, so much so that it made me want to dance.

    The Russian people have lived under Communism most of their lives, and yet there is in them a lightness, a freshness. This springtime, rising from under the snow of Communism, is one of the words—perhaps the comprehensive word—I have taken home with me. Other `words’ cluster around this new spring.

    The Dawn. My first grace-experience in Russia was at morning Mass in Moscow the day after we arrived. Both on our way to, and coming from, Magadan, we enjoyed the hospitality of a new community of men and women, The Family of Mary Co-Redemptrix.

    These young sisters from a variety of countries were singing a new melody. They sang with an innocent, angelic quality which sounded the note of a new song in the land and almost brought tears to my eyes. They were chanting the praises of Jesus, the eternal Spring.

    Red Square. On the same day, we went to Red Square, which I had heard and read about so often, and which symbolized the very heart of Communism. I could almost hear Lenin addressing the crowds in his diabolic oratory. But that day the square was almost completely empty.

    I’d seen pictures of endless lines of people waiting to visit Lenin’s tomb, but the tomb is isolated now and locked. Too bad. I had been moved to go in and pray for him.

    This bolted, isolated tomb was in absolute contrast to the picture I saw on my return: that of the Pope on pilgrimage to the Holy Land kissing the tomb of Christ—the only open tomb in the world.

    The Cup of Suffering. “This is my friend Maria. We have drunk the cup of suffering together.” Olga, whom I had just met, was introducing me to Maria with Trudy translating. Olga had spent 23 years in the prison camps of Magadan.

    Then I walked side by side with them to the museum. We couldn’t speak together and, in some way, I was grateful. It might have confused the simple, profound presence I experienced as we walked.

    Many different thoughts and emotions were running through me. I had read Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago, but had never been so close to one of the sufferers. I was aware of Christ who had suffered within her.

    I don’t know why, but I also experienced some kind of solidarity, as a member of the human race, with those who had done such terrible things to fellow human beings. Though I was not personally responsible, in some way, I felt implicated. I felt ashamed of the human race. The human race has nothing to boast about to God (1 Cor. 3:21).

    Fr. Alexander Men. We had arrived at a small chapel in the middle of a park near Moscow. “It was about here that Fr. Men was axed,” said Volodya. Volodya wanted us to visit the site where his spiritual father, the man who had brought him and his wife to Christ, had been martyred.

    The place was holy. I stopped to pray. Fr. Men had spoken about Christ too powerfully. He spoke too much truth. Young people had been brought to Christ through him. He had to be silenced.

    But, like Sts. Sergius and Seraphim, he lives.

    Standing in the snow where he died—which on the day he was killed had been stained with his blood—was a very moving experience for me. Another fountain of life will spring up from under the snow.

            My Catholic Brothers and Sisters. As we flew back from Magadan over eight time zones towards Moscow on a brilliant sunny day, my thoughts turned to the Catholic brothers and sisters I had met, the Catholic laity of Russia as well as the priests and sisters who come mostly from outside Russia.

    Along with our MH staff in Magadan, they have come to this land, not to proselytise the Orthodox, but to serve the Catholics in Russia who have kept their faith for years without any supporting Church. They are helping to build the foundations for a revitalized Catholic Church here.

    Whatever their pains and hiddenness, they are surely among the seeds dying in the Russian soil for a new fruitful harvest of the Gospel.

    Though I am not attracted to learn Russian at my age, I did learn to say, “Praise be Jesus Christ” in Russian. This is how Bishop Mazur has asked Catholics to greet one another, instead of `hello’. It was a joy to greet my new brothers and sisters thus, and to see their eyes light up at my feeble attempts to speak their language. They responded, “Now and forever”. So, praise be Jesus Christ! Yes, now and forever!

 

Buttercups and Strawberries

       by Fr. Eddie Doherty

Dear God of Heaven and Earth,

    Do you remember a July morning a few years ago when I was walking through your woods in Combermere? I had a long stick and with it I broke off the dead branches of the poplar trees. I broke them off because they barred my way.

    “God,” I said, “many dead branches bar my way to you. Break them. Break everything that keeps me from getting close to you—or you from coming close to me—as I beat a path through the poplar trees of my years.

    “Break off my attachment to earthly things, if they come between us. Peanut butter. Lobsters. Ripe cheeses. Hamburgers. Hot dogs with real English mustard. Bacon. Detective stories. Good books and movies. Comfortable shoes. Leisure. Fancy shirts and ties, Lord. And anything else.

    “Smash all the dead wood in me, the branches I was so proud of in my youth and middle age, the twigs that shaped my life—and shut you out of it.

    “Smash the live wood too, Lord, if it displeases you.

    “Strip me of all my faults and let the dead lumber fall where it will—to be as forgotten as my sins.”

    I watched the poplars and the pines adoring you, lifting their arms to you, whispering, “Holy, holy, holy!”

    There were ponds of Our Lady’s paintbrush everywhere, red and orange flowers. I watched them bowing and prostrating themselves before you. They rippled with the excess of their love, singing your praises silently. They looked like pools of fire and their fragrance filled the world.

    I saw the wild roses climb their vines to get a better look at you and your Mother, our Mystical Rose. They blushed with their young love.

    I saw the daisies, with their happy faces, blow ardent kisses to you as they curtsied in the wind.

    I saw the buttercups lift to you their chalices of lacquered gold.

    And I saw the humble, wild white morning glories creeping forward through the sparkling dew. They came to chant their morning prayers with their lovely pure throats, which you had shaped to the likeness of the old-fashioned phonograph horns.

    Lord, in your mercy, purge me unmercifully, so that when I too come to kneel at your feet, I may be as acceptable as those white flowers; and that I may have more to offer you than pale regrets.

    A partridge shot out of the ferns and a flock of small brown warblers ascended with him. (Did I break up a prayer meeting of the birds?)

    I put a prayer on every flower and every wing. A simple prayer: “I love you.”

    I picked some of the wild strawberries you had placed on the hillside for me. They were fresh from your hands, fragrant with your divinity, sweet with your breath.

    The strawberries gave their sweetness joyfully. My fingers were wet with their juice and I licked them clean.

Adapted from Getting to Know God, pp. 98-100, available from MH Publications.

 

 

MH Toronto

Jubilee Day of the Laity

by Elaine Dalton

    A marvelous Jubilee event which we recently experienced really began in Rome on the Vigil of Pentecost, May 30, 1998. That day half a million members of ecclesial movements and new lay communities from around the world gathered for a meeting with Pope John Paul II.

    Inspired by that event, the archdiocese of Toronto, on June 4th, organized a Jubilee event for all the Catholic lay movements and groups active in the archdiocese. It was held on June 4th at Marylake Augustinian Monastery north of Toronto, and MH Toronto was one of the groups invited to be on the organizing committee.

    This unique event also offered us an opportunity to present the Gospel and Madonna House spirituality and way of life.

    And so, in Combermere (approximately 200 miles or 320 km. from Toronto), MH Publications made plans to do what they often do at Catholic events—put up a table with MH books and literature.

    But the idea of making our literature available grew into the idea of using `artifacts’ and photographs to portray our way of life. And since it soon became apparent that a table wasn’t big enough, the idea of a book table expanded and grew into a booth which Denis Heames designed and built.

    The challenge was to make it transportable, and this, with great ingenuity, he did. The finished product was totally collapsible, packable into a small space (a van), and when re-assembled was a small `room’ which could hold several people and which had counters and walls for display.

    Denis, Mary McGoff, Marian Heiberger, and Fr. Francis Boland put together the display and came to Toronto to join us (the staff of MH Toronto) for the big event.

    On that day, the weather was perfect, and when we arrived, the Combermere team was already there putting the finishing touches on the booth.

    Soon it was time to carry our chairs to the Mass site. The scene was a colorful kaleidoscope of sun hats, umbrellas, banners, and a variety of national dresses, languages, and choir robes. We were rumored to be about ten thousand strong.

    The entrance hymn began. A quiet thrill of excitement charged through the group as the first banner appeared above the heads at the back of the crowd, and the thrill intensified as banner after banner identifying group after group slowly wound its way out through our midst.

    The applause was enthusiastic and cameras rolled as each person searched for his group, her banner, and everyone marveled at the number of groups. There were more than a hundred.

    The Mass celebrated the Feast of the Ascension, the Jubilee Year of Grace, the Holy Father’s invitation to the laity, and the charisms and dedication of the multitude of groups in our Toronto Archdiocese.

    As one of several groups asked to help in the liturgy, we brought up the Offertory gifts.

    Following the Mass, we meandered back, visited the booths of the various organizations and communities, and then manned our MH booth.

    Our booth attracted a steady stream of people. They were especially drawn by the delightful array of obviously real food: maple syrup and canned fruit from our farm in Combermere, and homemade bread; and crafts: pysanky (Russian Easter eggs), natural-dyed homespun yarn, handwoven cloth, ceramic lampadas (vigil light holders), candles, and a wrought iron crucifix.

    All were labelled and identified in Patricia Probst’s exquisite calligraphy, and all vividly portrayed our way of life.

    Plus on the walls were large,  colored photos of MH staff and guests working, praying, and recreating.

    Though many people were disappointed to learn that they could not buy the cheese, bread, fresh vegetables, or handicrafts, each item sparked conversations and a little nostalgia about making or working with those items.

    The generous supply of attractive MH handouts, moreover, encouraged people to take and read. Some people, having spent time as guests in Combermere, recognized one or another of the staff in the booth and stopped to chat. Some even talked in depth.

    People were struck by the sight of a priest connected to a lay group, and by his availability. In some instances, Fr. Francis’ very presence brought peace. And it was wonderful, when people talked in depth to us, to be able, if the need arose, to bring them to a priest right away.

    There was a festive atmosphere throughout the day as all of us, members of organizations, communities and movements, exchanged visits, literature, and explanations. We learned about each other’s charisms, founders, apostolic work, and in many cases, discovered the existence of groups we hadn’t heard about.

    We were very grateful to have been an active part of this wonderful Jubilee celebration.

 

Ecology

Nothing Stands Alone

  by Mary Davis

    Last winter I took a Red Cross First Aid course, where we studied the respiratory and cardiovascular systems and what to do if they stop working. If the victim cannot breathe, or the heart is not beating, the person will die. I was left in awe and wonder at the perfection of the human body and a fascination with the idea of systems. This led to my becoming aware of and studying other systems.

    There’s the solar system, for example. Scientists tell us that if our planet were a few million miles closer to the sun, we would bake. If a few million miles further, we would freeze. Either way, no life could be sustained. This is cause for awe and wonder.

    I studied the soil system which sustains all of life. It is made up of countless micro-organisms, insects, soil particles, and organic matter, all working together in relationship with each other, to provide the nutrients for all growing things.

    But this system is not self- sufficient. It needs oxygen from the air, rain from the sky, and heat from the sun. This most basic system of our planet is in relationship and interdependent with all the other systems. As I studied it, I was filled with awe and wonder.

    Now let us consider still another system—the Mystical Body of Christ. This system connects us with all the saints who have gone before us, even with God Himself. We have contact and communication with the saints who intercede for us, enlighten us, inspire and motivate us. In the Creed, we call this the communion of saints. This is still another big cause for awe and wonder.

    So what can we conclude when we look at these systems? We can conclude that God has ordained that nothing in creation stands alone. Everything is in relationship and is interdependent. Everything!

    Now let’s look at the `smaller’ picture.

    Over a year ago, CBC Radio had an eight-part series called From Naked Apes to Super Species, which followed the impact of man on the natural world. It is only in this century, with the development of technology and science, that we made such an impact on the natural world that the very systems which sustain life on the planet are threatened.

    We all have heard the stories of what is happening. With the burning of fossil fuels, greenhouse gases are destroying the ozone layer. UV radiation is causing cancer and, because of deforestation, weather patterns are changing. There are more and worse hurricanes, tornados, floods, droughts and ice storms.

 The earth is becoming warmer, and scientists say that the melting of the polar ice cap would cause the flooding of coastal waters around the world. Moreover, we are pouring toxic materials into the waters of the world poisoning them. I could add many other examples of what we are doing to destroy our earth but I don’t need to. You know them already.

    Some environmentalists say that the Judeo-Christian ethic is responsible for this crisis because in Genesis it says that God gave man dominion over all created things. Therefore, they are saying, man thought of himself as above and separate from the natural world around him. But the response of Christian theologians is that the word `dominion’ means `stewardship’. The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it (Gen. 2:15).

    So what should the Christian response to the environment be? First of all, let us look closely at the natural world with awe and wonder. If we do, its value will grow in our eyes. We take care of the things we value.

    Then let us listen to what the saints have told us. Saint Elizabeth Seton, foundress of the Sisters of Charity, said, “Live simply so that others may simply live.” Peter Maurin, co-founder of the Catholic Worker, said, “The second coat hanging in your closet belongs to the one who has none.”

    To look with awe and wonder, to live simply, to give away what we don’t need—that, I think, is the Christian response that the saints teach us.

    Little people cannot do great things, but we can do little things. Surely, we can read and keep informed, and pray about the problems.

    One major contributing factor to environmental problems is over-consumption by the people of the modern industrialized nations. Twenty per cent of the world consumes eighty per cent of its resources.

    So we can stop filling our houses with things we don’t need.

    And we can make more environmentally-aware decisions about the things we do buy. We can buy from companies and organizations that are good stewards of the earth and work towards better distribution of its resources.

    Another thing that we can do is buy locally and eat in season. For example, why do we Canadians and Americans in the northern states need to eat fresh tomatoes in January, tomatoes that come from South America and California?

    Great amounts of fuel and other resources are needed to bring these products to us. If we eat locally in winter, we can still make wonderful salads from cabbage and grated carrots and  turnips.

            We can go a step further and do our gardening organically and, in this way, keep chemicals and pesticides out of our gardens. And we can buy organic foods. (It’s true that such food is more expensive, but it’s much healthier and, in the long run, we will most likely save money on medicine and doctor bills.)

    There are countless things we can do, some as little as remembering to turn off lights we aren’t using. We just need to stop and think about what we do and how we live. There is nothing that just happens and that’s the end of it. Every action we take, even the smallest, has some consequence somewhere.

    For more information on how to live more simply and in ways that preserve the environment, I would recommend two books: More-With-Less Cookbook and Living More With Less, both by Doris Janzen Longacre.

    Both contain very readable basic information on this subject and numerous practical suggestions from ordinary people who are trying to live simply, and, in the case of the cookbook, lots of good recipes.

    These books can be ordered from Herald Press in Scottdale, PA or Waterloo, ON.

 

MH Natal

The Heart of a Coconut

by Andorra Howard

    Many people come to our house in Brazil to visit or stay with us. As Steve hoes, Lena washes, Andorra cooks, Sidcley plants, and Elizabeth does everything else (it seems) and listens and listens, the work of Nazareth, of our hearts, continues.

    And there is work on our hearts, too. I am newly assigned to Brazil, and do not speak Portuguese. After my first months here, I’ve concluded that when you don’t have the words of an adult, you need the heart of a child.

    A childlike heart makes new eyes and ears—and even tongue—possible where human ones fail.

    What is the heart of a child? Perhaps it’s like a coconut. Those who live in the tropics know that coconut doesn’t grow shredded in packages. It comes tumbling down from tall, sinewy trees.

    The outer shell is a hard husk, penetrable only by machete-like instruments, and brute force. Inside is a brown ball—softball size. With a hammer one then hits all around until the ball cracks open. Sweet juices spill out over your hands. Within lies delicious flesh of snow-white purity—a wondrous creation!

    The heart of a child makes me see things. It makes me delight when I am lost in incomprehension. It makes me love when all else is stripped away. Oh, the things I then love: children, the sun, the movement of a gardener hoeing, friends’ hilarity and laughter.

    One special friend of this house, with eyes sparkling and mischievous, has an infectious laugh. From years of hard work, goodness, and suffering, she laughs. From a center of purity like that of a coconut, she laughs, long, hard, and deliciously.

    Memories of what I see work on my heart’s coarse outer shell, tapping, tapping. For example, one scene. We are all bent over the earth. A friend kneels on all fours. Ten inches from ours his face shows lines of age and toil running its length. There radiates from his eyes the unmistakable glee of an eight-year old, as he demonstrates the proper way to plant macaxeira seedlings.

    His glee contagiously affects us. As I watch, another blow is struck, and the crack in my heart begins to widen.

    Without speaking the language, I’m like a child whose face and hands are pressed against the window of a bakery. My nose is flat from straining and sniffing. My eyes water and my mouth drools. Every time I catch a word I understand, the door of this bakery is opened a crack. Then I hear more sounds, smell more aromas, see the pastries more clearly, and I hunger. Oh, how I hunger!

    In many ways I have been invited inside. Brazilian hospitality is great! I made a trip to a small fishing village where three elderly nuns served with impeccable graciousness myself, my companions and the whole village.

    Via the invite of another good friend I spent a week in the interior, in Currais Novos. My hosts explained everything to me over and over again, simplifying their Portuguese as for a child.

    While there I spent three afternoons helping where my friend volunteers each week, teaching a group of kids. I understood not a word, but oh, the smiles! Shy ones, brave ones, sad ones conveyed volumes. And the hammer beat steadily on my heart.

    Yes, I stand hungry at the door of the shop. But my heart whispers, “Not yet, not yet.” Yes, my pockets are empty, but I realize that not just the coin of the native tongue will suffice.

    More is needed: the coin of reverence and love for the country, its peoples and traditions; the coin of sensitivity to its strife and struggles, awe for its riches, solidarity in its griefs and sorrows. These coins will not be mine until my heart cracks further.

    Not yet, not yet. Not until the last blow of the hammer splits wide this coconut and the pure, sweet juices spill out onto the hands, down the sides, into the ground—there to mix with the dust, the sweat, the earth, this land. Poured out … nothing left. Perhaps this would be called the `wounded heart’. But not yet, not yet.

    The work of Nazareth continues. The work on our hearts continues. And the hammering of a Carpenter … the hammering of a soldier upon nails and flesh echoes, echoes. Juices flow into the earth.

    The Paschal Mystery must be enfleshed, and the risen Christ draw all things to himself.